


The Blood on Your Hands

by redsuit



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Enemies to Lovers, Fantasy, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, This is a mess tbh, dream is edgy af, i just really wanted fantasy dnf, will add more tags
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-16
Updated: 2021-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-24 21:40:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30078738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsuit/pseuds/redsuit
Summary: Clay is eight years old when his mother dies.He’s ten years old when he meets Wilbur.He’s fifteen years old when he infiltrates the castle.All he wants is to kill the king, and it’s what he’s been working towards for years. Unfortunately for him, Prince George is annoyingly likeable.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 44





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> YO hello hello 
> 
> thank you very much for reading !! this is kind of a mess, sorry, but it’s mostly been written during 2am spouts of inspiration. updates will probably be irregular ngl

Prince George of Navis isn’t allowed outside past noon. 

He’s not even allowed near the windows. His mother and father always disappear, leaving him with a handful of nannies and servants that keep the curtains shut and drag him away when he gets too close. It’s boring, being inside. There’s no trees to climb, and he can’t meet Sapnap. All he’s allowed to do is read and annoy the guards. 

Today, he’s extra bored. His parents went out even earlier, ordering him not to leave the castle’s doors even before breakfast. He hasn’t been outside all day, and his tutor came over early and is on a break from teaching him about something he isn’t listening to. 

His chambers are boring. There’s no toys, just boring books and a boring bed and a boring closet. Even his parents’ room has armour and weapons hung on the walls. All George has is fancy blankets and nannies. 

He steps out into the hall, looking for something to do. There’s a collection of guards lining the walls, their armour shining with their magic. George has always liked mages more than anything. Their magic is powerful, like fairies, but dangerous. Fairies just plant trees and heal people. His father calls them glorified elves.

He turns down the hall, pausing when he sees two servants whispering and walking closely ahead. They turn the corner, and George follows, his interest piqued. It’s two women, and he recognises them from wandering around the castle. 

The women are whispering, but the halls echo enough for George to hear what they’re saying. He leans closer, holding his breath, as their voices bounce off the walls towards him. 

“-to talk about this, we can’t-”

“It’s the only way! Your husband’s savings won’t last any longer. Think about Clay, he needs-”

“I can take care of him myself! I am stable, and my husband’s savings aren’t any of your business. I do not need your opinion on my finances, and I am not risking execution for an extra penny.” 

“The King has a little boy, he’ll understand. If you just listen to me-”

“He won’t understand! That man has gone mad with paranoia. If he even hears whispers of theft in his employees, he’ll assume treason. These executions are the result of a crazed mind.”

“He is not mad! He grieving his brother’s betrayal, but he still understands reason-”

“He doesn’t! How many innocent souls has he beheaded this month? This was once a peaceful kingdom, but he is no longer a fair king. I cannot risk my life. I don’t care if I can’t eat for days. As long as I can survive to be there for Clay, we will be happy. I don’t want to hear from you about this matter again.”

George rushes around a corner as one of the women spins on her heel and walks away. The other rests against the wall, her head in her hands, and sighs deeply. George watches her for a moment as she seems to compose herself, before growing bored and walking back to his chambers. 

Later that night, when his father returns for dinner, George tells him of his day, and the two servants he saw. His father seems interested, more than he has in weeks, and encourages George to tell him everything about them. George basks in the attention, recounting his story with a smile. 

When his father takes him to point the servants out, George is confused, but isn’t willing to risk the comforting weight of his father’s hand on his shoulder. He picks out the women out of the masses of their servants, and is ushered away before he sees what happens. 

He doesn’t see the two servants again.

***

Clay is eight years old when he watches his mother die.

His throat burns as he screams, his heart hollowing in his chest. The air leaves his lungs in a merciless sweep as his knees give out, Phil’s arms tightening around his torso to keep him upright. His mother’s blood pools at the executioner’s feet and seeps through the stage’s old wood, spilling onto the dirt. 

The king is seated above them, staring blankly at the view. Clay looks at him and howls, his cries anguished and high. He’s unwillingly brought the attention of the crowd, full of peasants that cringe in sympathy and wealthy nobles that see his pain as their entertainment. Some of the guards, powerful mages with enchanted swords ready to strike, perk up and stare unsteadily. 

Phil’s grip is loosening. He’s shaking, his limbs weakening as he watches his dear friend bleed out. Clay writhes and shouts in his arms, and Phil has to will himself to keep hold. Despite the canyon of shock and grief bubbling in his chest, he has to stay strong for the boy, and he knows this, but Clay flings forward with a cry, and Phil watches his hands and knees become sticky when they touch the ground.  
Phil tries tugging on his shirt, holding him back, but Clay is blind to reason as he rushes forward. 

The stage is too tall, and it’s slippery and red, but Clay has always been a skilled climber. He clambers up onto it, onlookers gasping as he lunges at the crumbled corpse in the center. Hands grab at him, tugging him away, but he reaches her before they can succeed. 

When his father died, he was cold. Clay remembers gripping his shirt and feeling ice beneath his fingers. His mother is warm, though, and Clay holds that knowledge close as his clothes begin sticking to his skin, the blood drying already. He has a toy- a doll that his mother made for him when he was born. He remembers playing with it once, and the head ripping off on a branch. She sewed it back on, and the doll was fine. So she’ll be fine.

Her body is lying awkwardly, her knees bent and her hands still bind behind her back. Her head can’t be seen, but he knows it’s in the basket to his left. He’s been to an execution before. He snuck out once, to see what it was about, and had nightmares for weeks. He thinks he’ll have them for even longer after this. 

He’s about to reach it when he’s pulled back. He’s dragged off the stage, kicking and screaming, and held back by a pair of royal mages as Phil rushes towards him. Clay collapses into his arms, mumbling nonsense through his tears as Phil runs a hand through his hair. He’s suddenly more tired than he thinks he’s ever been. 

His mother’s body is collected, and another poor soul is kneeled in her blood, preparing for a mirrored fate. Clay doesn’t watch, but he hears the axe swinging down, and the crack of the victim’s neck, and the thump of their head. He doesn’t stop hearing that sound for years. 

***

Living with Phil is uneventful. He works on his farm for most of the week, and then goes into town on Saturday to sell his potatoes, and on Sunday for church. Clay can tell Phil doesn’t know what to say to him, or how to treat him, but he doesn’t mind. He doesn’t want to speak.

Phil’s house is small, placed on the outskirts of the kingdom so it has room for the potato farm. Most of the farms in the area are run by the fairies, and all have a superficial likeness about them, so the townspeople appreciate Phil’s supplies. The cottage is bigger than Clay’s old home, though, and backs out onto the nice side of the forest. Growing up, visiting Phil’s with his parents meant getting to play in the farm and explore the trees. Now, living there is a grim reminder of his misplacement. 

Clay doesn’t understand why his mother died. He just knows that the King ordered her death, and he watched as her blood was spilled. He knows that he wants to kill him. 

Before his father got sick, he took him hunting. He got to use his father’s bow to shoot an elk, and then learnt to skin it and cut it up for his mother to cook. It scared him back then, and it made him feel nauseous late at night, but that must have been because it was innocent. The king is guilty, so Clay knows he won’t feel bad when he kills him.

One Sunday, when Phil is mingling with the townspeople after church, Clay finds an old, wooden sword behind the shops. It’s bent oddly, and it’s splintery and blunt when he picks it up and runs his hand along the blade. It must have been made by the woodworker before he died.

He’s heard stories of the woodworker’s execution. It was treason, just like his mother. Clay scoffs at the thought. The woodworker was probably as innocent as her.

He swings the sword around a few times, stumbling around with the weight of it. He adjusts his hands and beats it against the wall before spinning, imagining it slicing through enemies and sending them to the ground. He imagines pushing it through the king’s heart, and making him limp like his mother and father were.

Phil approaches him eventually, and raises a brow when he sees what he’s got, scoffing lightly as Clay splashes ungraciously in a shallow puddle. The boy frowns and straightens his back, mimicking the movements he’s seen from guards as best as he can. 

“Where’d you find that?” he asks, watching the boy with subtle amusement. 

Clay huffs gently and swings the sword up to rest against his shoulder. “On the street,” he replies. “I think the old woodworker left it.”

Phil nods, before grimacing. “He had a son a little older than you, named Wilbur. He must have made it for him.” 

Clay shrugs and resumes his swinging. “I dunno.”

He pauses, the sword resting at his side, and avoids Phil’s eyes. “Can I keep it?” he mumbles. 

Phil hums, thinking, before he shrugs. “I don’t see why not.” He picks it up and examines it, running his fingers along the edge until he pulls away with a hiss. “I’ll have to sand it, though. We don’t want you getting any splinters.” 

Phil rests the sword against a wall and inspects his hand, eyeing the fracture of wood beneath the skin. He can’t let Clay use the sword while it’s like this. He wonders if he should let him use a sword at all- he knows how angry he is, and he doesn’t want to condone any thoughts of violence. 

He doesn’t want to restrict him too harshly, either. Phil isn’t his real father, and Clay will resent him if he acts too overbearing. It’s a difficult choice, and one that Phil has no prior knowledge of, so he takes the sword home. He just hopes he won’t regret it. 

That afternoon, Clay spends his time at the edge of the forest, beating trees weakly. There’s no tactic or skill behind his actions, but the usual heaviness in his chest has lightened, and feels stronger than he’s felt in days. In the house, Phil watches from the window and wonders if he made the right decision. 

***

Phil grows to understand a parent’s constant state of anxiety when Clay settles into a reckless personality. 

The boy spends his days exploring, venturing too far into the woods and cutting it too close with lurking beasts. Phil grows calmer when Clay returns, unscathed, day after day. Eventually, he’s barely worried, sitting with dinner and green tea at the same time Clay returns every night. 

He’s doing that now, stirring his tea as he waits for Clay. He’s taking longer than usual, but Phil isn’t worried yet. He checks the window often, frowning at the darkening sky, and begins to fiddle. 

He starts to stress when the sun has set, and Clay still hasn’t returned. He waits another ten minutes, trying not to be overbearing, before he pushes out of his chair and stands next to the window. From there, it’s another five minutes until he cracks and goes outside, armed with a lantern and his diamond sword.

The wind is cold, the night’s chill heavily contrasting the day’s warmth. It makes the trees too loud for Phil to hear anything. He calls out to Clay, hoping his voice will carry through the woods, and waits for a minute. Nothing happens. 

His hands shake as he steps into the forest. It’s always been slightly haunting, especially at night, but Phil is a grown man. He’s grown used to it. What he hasn’t grown used to is the dread curling in his chest at the thought of Clay, dead at the hands of a creature of the night. 

There’s a barrier, about a hundred feet in, where the spell that keeps monsters away ends. He’s always told Clay not to wander too deep, to stop where the trees are too crowded for sunlight to reach the floor. Phil begins to doubt that the boy has been listening. 

He continues to call, hearing no replies. He’s already passed the barrier, the air turning colder as he walks. Scanning the trees, he notices a glint that the light from his lantern catches upon, his heart stopping in his chest when he sees what it is. 

The blood is dark, and there isn’t a lot, which calms the man considerably. He reassures himself that Clay isn’t bleeding out, and that whatever happened didn’t hit an artery. It’s splattered against the tree, though, so something hit him. 

Phil’s throat feels like it’s tied itself into a knot. He’s moving faster, surely drawing attention to himself, looking for any more signs of blood. If there is anything, it’s blending into the wood and dirt, or Phil is just too panicked to notice it. His voice feels raw as he screams Clay’s name. 

A weakened shout of his own name makes Phil’s world go silent. The woods warp, turning so his heartbeat echoes in his ears and his own heavy, erratic breathing replaces the wind. Clay calls his name again, and everything comes back, the forest’s sounds flooding Phil’s ears. 

He runs. Clay keeps calling, growing weaker every time, his voice broken and soft. Adrenaline is the only thing keeping him upright. Any fear of the forest and its beings is drowned out as he moves, brushing past branches and barely making it over giant roots. 

When he finds Clay, he’s pretty sure the world implodes. He’s huddled between some bushes, probably hiding, clutching his left arm as he cries. There’s a collection of monsters nearby, the familiar sound of rattling bones, sharp hisses and deep groans sending a chill down Phil’s spine. 

He hasn’t fought a monster in years. When he was younger, and his family lived in a village unprotected by magic, fighting off zombies and shooting spiders from the garden were regular occurrences. It’s been nearly a decade since he left home as a teenager, though, and Navis is worlds away from the harshness of his childhood home. 

The monsters are moving closer to Clay. Phil moves instinctually, slicing his sword against a zombie’s neck. It gets stuck, his swing not as strong as it used to be, and Phil has to heave it from the corpse of the crumbling monster. He kicks an approaching skeleton, severing the spine from the skull, as his sword swings to meet the neck of another. 

Phil swipes at a zombie’s legs, slicing through its knees, before beheading it, quickly growing into his old fighting style. Approaching spiders are cut down the middle, skeletons and zombies beheaded in one swing. He’s breathing heavily, his hands stiff, by the time it’s over. 

He rushes towards Clay, inspecting the boy before him. There’s a wound on his upper arm, blood spilling between the boy’s fingers where he’s clutching the gash. Phil pulls Clay towards him and runs a hand through his hair, gently shushing him. 

“It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay,” he repeats, barely holding in his own cries. “I’m here now, you’re gonna be okay, I promise.”

“I’m sorry,” Clay hiccups, his shoulders shaking. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

Phil isn’t breathing properly. “No, Clay, it’s not your fault. It’s- I promise it’s not your fault.” He shifts, causing the boy to wince and pull back. “I’m sorry. I have to move you, I’m so sorry.”

Clay sobs as he’s picked up, his eyes closing tightly. “I want my mom,” he cries. “Please, I want my mom.”

Phil can feel his face growing warm as tears pool in his eyes. He rushes out of the forest, his lantern abandoned with his hands full. The atmospheric change in the forest once he passes the barrier is enough to make him stumble. The movement jostles Clay, whose consciousness is draining with the sweat collecting on his forehead. 

Returning home is a blur. Phil remembers giving Clay his healing potion, the only one he had, and how much his hands shook when he threaded a needle so he could give the boy stitches. He remembers that Clay didn’t fall asleep, no matter how much he hoped he would, and how he writhed and screamed as Phil treated his wound. He remembers feeling sick. He remembers crying. He remembers wishing he wasn’t there, and that Clay’s parents were still alive, and that the boy hadn’t gone into the forest. 

He sits by Clay’s bed the whole night, listening to him breathe. When Clay wakes up and cries for his parents, Phil soothes his hand through the boy’s hair and tells him a nice story until he falls asleep. He doesn’t go to bed, and he doesn’t close his eyes. 

It’s the first time that he considers himself a parent, and Clay his child. He feels that instinctual love for him; the anxiety of something going wrong, the need to protect him. So he vows to do better, to be better, and stays with Clay for the rest of the night. 

***

When Clay is ten, Phil adopts another boy. 

Clay doesn’t like him. His pink hair is weird, and he kind of looks like a monster, with pointy ears and sharp teeth. He’s scrawny and a few inches smaller than Clay, but talks as if he’s a head knight. He’s annoying. 

They meet while Clay is practicing with his wooden sword, swinging at low trees and bushes. Phil doesn’t like it when he’s violent, but Clay needs to train. He doesn’t care how much Phil protests; he’s going to kill the king. For executing his mother, for restricting his father’s treatment, for making Phil work until exhaustion to keep food on the table. 

Phil’s returning from selling his potatoes, a small pouch of coins gripped in his left hand, with his other on the shoulder of his new son. He calls out to Clay, who obediently runs inside, his sword left hidden in the roots of a large tree. While Phil has stopped trying to convince him to stop training, Clay doesn’t trust that he won’t take his weapon. 

Phil is standing by the backdoor, watching Clay. The boy next to him has his head held high, and his back straight, but his fingers are nervously fiddling with the rim of his pocket. Clay might not go to school, but he’s not an idiot. He can see that he’s scared. 

Clay purposely keeps his arms crossed casually, his posture relaxed. It probably isn’t very convincing for an adult, and he can see Phil tilt his head curiously, but the other boy seems uncomfortable with his stance. He shifts, stepping closer to Phil. Clay’s expression darkens. 

“Clay, this is Technoblade,” Phil says, smiling warmly. “He’ll be staying with us.” 

“Why?” Clay scoffs. “Isn’t there an orphanage in town?”

Phil’s eyes widen, taken aback by Clay’s behaviour, and Technoblade hides further behind him. “Clay! Don’t be rude! Techno is a sweet boy, alright? And he needs my help, just like you did. Now, we’re going to treat him with kindness, and welcome him into the house. Won’t it be nice to have another boy your age around?”

Clay kicks a pebble, head lowered to hide his clenched jaw. “We don’t need anyone else in the house,” he mumbles, before looking up to meet Phil’s eyes and raising his voice. “It’s fine with just us! I don’t even understand why you would bring him here! He’s just going to eat all of our food and take up all of our space!”

Technoblade’s eyes are watering, his grip tightening on Phil’s coat. The man notices and rubs his shoulder gently, turning away from Clay to send him a reassuring look. Clay watches with equally red eyes, his fingernails digging into his palms, and grits his teeth. His breathing is becoming unsteady.

“This isn’t fair!” he shouts, his voice wavering. “You can’t just replace me with some pink haired freak! Why would you even want him? He’s weird! Everyone in town is just going to see us with him and hate us too! This is stupid, and I hate both of you!”

He pushes the duo aside, purposefully slamming the door behind him, and storms to his room. His anger flares when he sees a makeshift bed in the corner, obviously meant for the stupid kid Phil wants to make him live with. Phil must hate him, he decides, as he crawls under his own blanket and curls up with his hands to his chest, gripping the front of his shirt. He wouldn’t do something like this if he wasn’t trying to hurt Clay. He’s probably just trying to get rid of him.

Usually, when Clay gets upset, Phil only leaves him alone for a few minutes before he comes to his room and cheers him up. It’s been what feels like hours, though, and the air is growing stuffy and humid under Clay’s blanket, and Phil is nowhere to be seen. 

Clay grows angry, now. He throws himself out of bed, wipes his eyes, and storms out of the cottage. He sees Phil, kneeling in front of Techno, who looks just as distraught as Clay feels. Why should he be upset, though? He’s the one stealing the only family Clay has left, not the other way around. Techno is crying, though, and Phil is hugging him instead of Clay, and Clay’s face feels like it’s on fire as he turns and runs towards the woods. 

Phil notices him then, and he rushes towards the boy without a second thought. The woods are deep, though, and Clay is young and small and agile, and Phil’s leaning against a tree and panting before he knows it. His breath is stuck in his throat, and he’s clutching his chest almost painfully, and he’s just about to pass out because he lost the kid. 

The one thing he had promised to do, he’s failed. And now Clay is alone, and Phil has driven him away, and… he doesn’t know what to do. 

Phil calls out to clay for hours. He never comes back.

***

Clay begins to regret running away when the sun sets, and he has no idea where to go. The forest is beginning to come alive, pleasant chirps turning to heavy footfalls, and Clay is lost. In the daylight, he knows how to go East to reach the town, and West to get back to Phil’s cabin, but the night holds him back and keeps him in place.

He can’t map the stars, he doesn’t know which way he came from, and he’s spun around so many times in search of anything to help that every tree looks the same. His chest is getting tight, like it’s filling with rocks, and the scar on his arm is stinging. Clay doesn’t know what to do. 

He picks a random direction and runs. He doesn’t give himself any time to doubt his decision, or to back out; he just takes off and doesn’t stop. Everything is loud, his panting and leaves crunching and sticks breaking, and it’s all sound created by him but it feels like a monster is running behind. Clay’s throat is closing up, his breathing is getting faster, and he knows that he’s made a terrible mistake. 

He just feels hurt. Phil is replacing him, and he’s going to leave, and Clay is going to be all alone. He doesn’t have anyone else, he can’t lose Phil, he’s just a kid and he’s so scared to be alone that it’s making his chest feel like someone’s pushing against it. 

Clay realises, with a settling of dread in his gut, that he is alone. 

It’s cold in the woods. The breeze is gentle, and not as harsh as it is in town, but the ground is damp and the air is like ice. Clay’s used to being cold; fairy heat doesn’t get this far, especially in Winter. This is different, though, and scarier, because there’s no blankets or fire or Phil or-

He has to calm down. He’s old enough to know that he has to calm down. Panicking is going to make things worse, it always does, and there’s no one to run to when his lungs won’t come anymore. He takes a deep breath, and it pinches his throat and makes him wince because it’s so cold. He releases the warm air into his palms in an attempt to stop their shaking. 

He picks another random direction, the one that feels the most open, and starts to walk. He counts his steps, keeping himself distracted. Phil’s been teaching him to count high because the nearest school is so far away. He’s up to six-hundred-and-twelve when the woods open up. 

For a moment, he thinks he’s back home, and his eyes water with relief. He runs forward, prepared to just storm through the door and apologise and declare that he will never run away again, when something makes him stop. 

The backdoor. It’s on the wrong side. And this cottage is smaller, and there aren’t plants curled around the walls and roof, and he can see that there’s no farm when he looks past it. There’s a familiar stained-glass window that his mother used to spend hours keeping clean, and a chair his father built so he could watch the woods. They’re ruined now. This is his house. 

Clay begins to back away, before a rustle from behind him makes him startle. He rushes towards the house almost instinctively, pressing against the wall and facing the forest. The trees are still, but they sound alive, and Clay’s heart is racing at the thought of the number of creatures he’s only just become safe from. 

A boy, probably a few years older than clay, emerges from the trees. He’s holding a run-down guard’s sword, his clothes dirty enough to match his brown, oily hair, and he looks furious.

“I knew something was out there,” he scowls, stepping forward. “Get away from my house. You shouldn’t be here.”

“This is my house!” Clay near-shrieks, his voice breaking midway. “My-my parents lived here! I lived here! You shouldn’t be here!”

The boy seems taken aback, his brow crinkling. “Shut up. No one was living here when I found it. Go away before I throw you back into the forest.”

Clay glances fearfully at the woods, then back at the boy. “I swear, I used to live here. My- my mom was executed, so I had to live with Ph- her friend. But I…” he trails off, unable to continue his story, unsure of what to say. His voice shakes when he speaks again. “I don’t know. I just need to stay somewhere, and this is my house, and-”

“This is my house,” the boy interrupts, his face red. “I found it.” he pauses, taking a moment to study Clay, before his demeanour softens. “Look, my parents were executed too. I know- I know how you feel.” He fiddles with his sword, a frown twisting his features. “I’m willing to offer you pity.”

Clay exhales deeply, looking back at the house. “Do you mind if I stay here? Just- just for a little while! I won’t bother you, I promise, I just don’t have anywhere to go and this is -was, I don’t know- my house, so...” he takes a deep, shaky breath. “Please?”

The boy’s shoulders loosen, and he loops his sword into his belt. “How old are you?”

“Ten,” Clay replies, “so I can fend for myself. You won’t even know I’m here. My mom taught me how to cook and Phil taught me how to farm, so I’ll be able to pay you back in food.”

“I don’t like kids,” the boy states. “If you’re staying with me, you better live up to your word. My dad was a royal guard when he was younger, and he taught me how to fight, so I can kick your ass. I’m nearly old enough to work in the town, and once that happens? You’re gone. Until then, you’re not going to bother me while I train.”

“Is that a yes?” Clay breathes, the tension draining from his shoulders. 

The boy huffs and rolls his eyes. “Yes. I’m Wilbur.”

Clay beams and perks up. “I’m Clay. Thank you so much, I promise I won’t bother you.”

“Good,” Wilbur nods. “Now go away while I train.” he unsheathes his sword, which Clay can see is in terrible shape, and swings it a few times. 

“What are you training for?” Clay asks, his curiosity overcoming any traces of fear. His guilt still stirs in his chest, a reminder of Phil’s distant shouts behind him as he ran, but he pushes it down and focuses on Wilbur

The boy swipes his sword against a nearby tree, surprisingly skilled. “I’m going to kill the king,” he declares, turning to meet Clay’s eyes, which are glinting with awe and excitement. “and you know what? I think you should help me.”


	2. Chapter Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey y’all, chapter 2 here. it was ready ages ago but i kept playing genshin impact and procrastinating publishing it lol

“Wilbur,” Clay calls, drawing out the world. He grins, the grip on his sword tightening. “Come on, Wilby!” 

“Shut up, dickhead!” his brother shouts back. “No one is scared of your sing-song voice! Shut the fuck up!”

Clay snorts and spins his sword as he turns a corner, finding Wilbur crouched behind his father’s old chair. He drags it away and points his sword towards Wilbur’s chest, smiling down at him. The older boy rolls his eyes and stands up, meeting Clay’s eyes. They’re nearly the same height now, which Clay is unwittingly proud of. 

“Found you,” Clay hums, handing the sword to Wilbur. “You suck at manhunts. Always winning is getting boring.”

“Always winning at one-on-ones is worse,” Wilbur sneers. “Hide and Seek doesn’t matter. You need to learn how to really fight. Like me.”

Clay frowns. “You’re a mage and your dad taught you how to fight. It’s not fair.”

“Nothing is,” Wilbur replies. “Clay, you’re going to fight against people that are better than you. All the royal guards have magic, and it’s a lot more powerful than mine. You’re human. You have a sword, badly enchanted armour and a bucket-full of rage. But you’re smart, and you think quickly, so you have to use that. Not a lot of people can think like you.” He pauses to clasp a hand on Clay’s shoulder. “You’re also fucking annoying, but I think that’ll go away once your voice stops cracking and you grow out of that stupid wheeze.”

“Fuck you,” Clay laughs as he shoves Wilbur’s hand away. “You’re just jealous because you’re so short, you tiny man.” He makes a show of standing up taller, pushing out his chest. “How’s the weather down there, by the way?”

Wilbur pushes Clay, making him stumble, and crosses his arms. “My dad was tall. He was, like, three times taller than you are now. And I’ll be the same.” Throwing his sword to the side, he straightens himself up. “Let’s spar now, so I can punch you in your stupid face.”

Clay agrees, and the two quickly settle into their usual fighting styles. They’ve grown used to each other's movements, their sparring nearly choreographed. Wilbur’s magic is difficult to deflect, but he consistently makes the same mistake- he uses it too quickly, throwing sparks and spells at Clay at the start of every fight and growing tired near the end. Wilbur wins each time, of course, but Clay is confident that he’ll outsmart him eventually. 

Staying with Wilbur is the most fun he’s ever had. There’s times when it’s hard, or course- the first couple of years, when neither of them could work, food was scarce enough to struggle. They stole from the town and sold anything they could find, scraping together rusted coins and cold meals. Eventually, when Wilbur turned fifteen, shops started accepting his help, and the pair grew into a steady lifestyle. Training on days off, planning the king’s death and messing around has become their lives. 

He misses Phil sometimes. He considered going back for a while, but ultimately decided against it. If he had suddenly shown up, Phil would just hate him. That doesn’t mean that thinking about it doesn’t make his heart churn. 

There was a little while where he couldn’t go into town. Everyone was looking for him, and Wilbur kept reporting seeing a blonde man hanging up posters. The guilt was unbearable during that time. Every night, Clay would stand by the edge of the forest, debating going in and finding his way back to Phil’s. And every night, the thought of Phil hating him, or a rustle in the woods, would bring him back inside the cottage. 

Wilbur came back one day with a mask. He told Clay that he should decorate it, make it a trademark of his. Clay was never the creative kind, so he drew a smiley face in the middle. Wilbur told him it looked stupid, but that he wasn’t willing to buy him a new one. From there on, Clay wore the mask into town so he wouldn’t be recognised. He’s grown an attachment to it now. 

His alias was introduced after a vendor asked him his name. Panicking, and thinking pretty heavily about the weird dream he had the night before, Clay blurted out the first thing that came to his head; Dream. Now he uses it whenever someone asks his name.

Wilbur wins their match, which is no surprise. “You’ll beat me someday,” he grins, holding out his hand. 

Clay shakes it and smiles. “I know.” 

***

Clay’s mask is something he’s gotten used to. He doesn’t leave without it anymore. He ignores the odd stares he receives and brushes past fraying missing signs, making up some lie about a scar when people ask about his face. 

“Yeah, I was in a fire when I was a baby,” he says to the woman before him. “Burnt up my whole face. I wouldn’t wanna scare kids, y’know?” 

He holds back a laugh as she inhales deeply and nods, mumbling something about understanding and feeling sorry before she gathers her children and hurries away. He scoffs lightly and continues through the town’s crowd, his hands fiddling with the loose coins in his bag. He needs a new hoodie. He grew out of his own one a while ago, but only just grew out of Wilbur’s. Being fifteen and attempting to fit into a thirteen year old’s clothes wasn’t going to last for long. 

There’s a store that he sells dye to from flowers he collects. The owner is sweet; a nobleman's widow, Marie, who was exiled from high society after her husband’s execution. Her son, Sapnap, collects flowers for her with Clay sometimes. He’s probably one of Clay’s only friends. 

The store smells of honey and pollen, the walls a mix of fabric and colours. Clay basks in the welcoming atmosphere and takes a moment to appreciate the shop, feeling immediately relaxed. He’s running his hand over a stretch of green wool, his mind clearing, when a voice makes his blood run cold. 

“Thanks, Marie, you’re a real angel. Techno’s growing so fast, I’m buying new clothes every week.” 

It’s not like he hasn’t seen Phil before. He purposely avoids going into town on the same days as him, but every few months he’ll spy the blonde man in the crowd. He hasn’t been this close to him in years. 

Marie smiles kindly as she ties a package. “It’s no problem, Phil. I know how fast boys at that age grow.” She looks in Clay’s direction, her smile growing. “Dream! I haven’t seen you in a while! Need anything?”

Clay shrugs awkwardly, trying not to speak. Logically, he knows that Phil won’t recognise his voice- it’s been years, and Clay sounds tremendously different than he did when he was ten. That doesn’t mean he’s going to risk being found out, even if his fear is irrational. 

Marie waves him over as she hands Phil his clothes. “Come here, sweetie. You look a mess. You need a new hoodie.” She studies him and clicks her tongue disapprovingly. “How’s Wilbur? Does he need anything?” 

“Wilbur?” Phil repeats, before turning to Clay. “The woodworker’s son? Are you close with him?”

Clay nods and looks away, his face burning beneath his mask. He wants to run. 

Phil hums. “I was always fond of that boy. He seemed lovely when I met him.” He slips his package into his bag and adjusts it on his shoulder. “How’s he doing, by the way? Is he alright?”

Shit. Clay has to speak. “He’s alright,” he forces out, deepening his voice as much as he can. 

Phil nods and smiles thinly. “Great. Thanks for the clothes, Marie. I’ll see you later, okay?”

Marie waves as he leaves, her expression sagging when he’s out the door. “That poor man. Lost his son, y’know? Ran into the woods, didn’t come back. The poor boy must have been found by a pack of somethin’s.” She points a cautionary finger. “Always be grateful for the fairies, Dream. They keep us safe more than you kids know.” 

The scar on Clay’s arm begins to sting. “He wasn’t his son,” he says, speaking before he can think. “He was an orphan. Phil was close with his parents before they were executed.”

“Oh,” Marie frowns. She shakes her head. “What a terrible tragedy. Did you know him?”

“We were friends,” Clay lies, finding it to be the most plausible thing to say. “Not really close, though. I don’t remember him, honestly. Still. A tragedy.”

Marie’s eyes grow pained. “Those executions were horrible. I can’t believe the king would ever carry them out. So many innocent people...” She inhales deeply and attempts to brighten. “He’s less strict now, I suppose. Offers a chance for everyone else.”

“Doesn’t mean he’s stopped,” Clay scoffs bitterly. “The man’s corrupt. He needs to be put to an end.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Marie sighs. “At least his son is nearly of age. He might be able to win the crown, like his father. He’s kinder than him.”

Clay wrinkles his nose. “He grew up in a castle. He probably stacked blocks while people were being executed outside. How can he be better than his father when he was raised by that man’s silver spoon?”

“Sapnap was close with the prince,” Marie replies. “He’s a lovely boy. A little reserved, of course; he takes after his mother, who’s as sweet as honey. He was nice when he was a child, at least. Maybe he’s worsened -God knows the training they put boys like that through is harsh-, but from what I saw, I think he could grow to be a strong king. You would probably like him.”

Clay considers what she’s said for a moment, before immediately pushing it away. He doesn’t have room for sympathy for the royal family. He’s smart enough to know that the prince is entitled, and privileged, and that he’d probably spit at the sight of the dirt on Clay’s shoes. He doesn’t say this, though; he just shrugs, and keeps his mouth shut. Like he usually does. 

A beat passes. “Have you got your eye on any fabrics, sweetie? Any colours that you like?” 

Clay turns, eying the bright green stretch of cotton pinned to the wall. “The green is cool. The bright one.” He turns back to face Marie. “Could you- I don’t know, could you turn it into a hoodie?” 

Marie perks up. “Oh! Oh, yes I already have one!” she rushes into the back room for a moment, emerging later with a bundle of bright green. “I made it for Sapnap, and he didn’t want it. I can never get him to wear colour.” She unfolds the fabric, unraveling a hoodie. “Would you like it, sweetie? I can give it to you for free for all the help you’ve given me around here. I couldn’t make this without your dye.”

“Really?” Clay asks, a smile growing beneath his mask. “You don’t have to, Marie, I have the money-”

“No, I insist,” she interrupts. “You and Wilbur help me out so much, I can’t help but repay the favour. It’s not like anyone else will buy it, anyway. Tell your brother to stop by, alright? That yellow sweater of his is turning brown.”

Clay takes the hoodie and nods. “Thank you so much, Marie. I’ll get you more dye, okay?”

Marie waves her hand dismissively and disappears into the back room. Clay just stands still for a moment, clutching his hoodie, before laughing softly and leaving the store. He takes a moment to change into it, careful not to move his mask. Just as he’s pulling it over his head, a face appears in his vision, making him jump.

“Oh, sorry for the fright,” Phil smiles. “I just noticed you while I was going to the fruit vendor. You seem familiar, do I know your parents?”

Clay feels his hands begin to shake. “I- sorry, I’m not- shit. Sorry.” He brushes his palms against his new hoodie. “I’m Wilbur’s brother.”

Phil raises his eyebrows. “Oh? I thought he was an only child?”

“Yeah, but- no, sorry, he’s not. Sorry, I’m not- I’m not good at talking to people. Probably why you haven’t seen me.” He pauses awkwardly, searching for words, before holding out his hand. “I’m Dream.”

Phil shakes it. “Phil. Do you mind if I ask about the mask?”

“I’ve got a scar,” Clay shrugs, vaguely motioning towards his face. “Had it forever. It’s just- it’s just easier to hide it, I guess. I mean, scars are awesome, I just- fuck. I don’t know, it’s just… yeah.”

“Yeah,” Phil repeats, seeming to partially understand. “Well, I’ll be off, I suppose. I have to get home. Say hi to Wilbur for me.”

Clay just wants him to leave. “I will.”

Phil finally brushes by, heading to the vendor he mentioned before. Clay physically relaxes, feeling a weight fall from his shoulders. He can feel his heart beating too fast in his chest.

He steadies his breathing, the sound being amplified by the closeness of his mask and echoing all around him. It feels too tight, like it’s suffocating him; like the smile has become malicious, and is about to fold against his neck and steal his breath. He wants it off. 

The town is too busy. It’s crowded with bustling people that flow in and out of shops and push past Clay as if he isn’t there. The constant chatter sounds like a hurricane, the waves of people like a tsunami. Clay searches desperately for an escape, his hands instinctively beginning to fiddle with the drawstrings of his hood. 

There’s a bridge behind the town square, leading to the castle, with a dried up riverbank beneath it. Clay finds himself crawling down the side, scarcely stopping himself from slipping on the mud lining the steep hill. He’s hardly concentrating on what he’s doing, just trying to be alone. He’s probably ruining his new hoodie. 

Clay relaxes under the bridge, finally able to pull off his mask and breathe now that he’s alone. He feels like he can still see Phil in front of him, that he can still hear his voice. His chest aches. His eyes sting. 

Talking to Phil hurt. Part of him wishes that he recognised him, so he could just rip the mask off and go home. It’s been too long, though. The second he ran into those woods, there was no returning. He should have gone back when he could. But he kept running, and then he kept staying at Wilbur’s, and eventually Phil became his past. Just like his parents.

There’s a hollowness in Clay’s chest. His lips keep tugging downwards, completely against his will. His hands are shaking, subconsciously tapping against his knees. He misses his mother’s smile. He misses his dad’s laugh. He misses Phil’s warmth.

He holds his breath without really realising what he’s doing. He’s completely engulfed in his own grief, the ache in his chest holding his complete attention. He stares blankly, tears dripping miserably from his eyes, one by one. Under the bridge, it's quiet.

The chaos above feels like standing at the shore of a beach, waves distantly crashing. Clay finds himself grateful that he’s faraway, that he can relax, before the quiet is ruined.

Someone’s shouting. Clay feels like punching them in the face. He grits his teeth and feels frustration slowly fill the hole in his heart. He lets it fuel him as he pulls himself up, prepared to take his anger out on whoever’s making all that noise. When he finally finds them, he sees that somebody else is already doing so, and almost laughs.

It’s a group of people, actually. They’re on horses, trotting slowly through the mud, with a body slung over the back of one. The figure is dressed in high-class clothes, a hood over their head and a dirtied rope around their wrists. They’re shouting violently, yelling profanities at the men.

Clay watches, almost amused, as they kick themselves off the horse, landing on the ground with a thud. Their captors groan before jumping after them, a few pulling extra ropes from their bags. The kidnappee kicks an oncoming one with surprising strength, their legs flailing as they attempt to attack everyone around them. Clay is almost impressed. 

The men take them on with ease. They hold their captor still and tie their ankles together, barely managing to escape kicks to the face. Clay considers just leaving them be- they seem rich, probably just being taken for a ransom. It’s likely that they’ll be back in their mansion in a day, recovering from nothing more than hurt feelings. 

It’s when one of the captors pulls them up by their collar and punches them across the face that Clay gets angry. He stalks over, catching the end of their conversation when he approaches. 

“-can’t just punch him, idiot! Schlatt wants him unharmed! He’ll kill you if you defy his orders!” 

“We have to rough him up a little! You think his big ol’ daddy is gonna see us as a threat if we leave him without a scratch? I’m helping us-”

“You’re being fucking stupid! We need to-” he’s cut off when Clay stops in front of him, crossing his arms. 

“This seems awfully suspicious, doesn’t it?” Clay hums. “You’ve got a tied up nobleman’s son, you’re not dressed like locals, you’re passing under bridges… were you not expecting to get caught?”

One man laughs. “This is more than a nobleman’s son, kid. Now why don’t you scram, before we have to leave your body under this bridge?”

Clay doesn’t like wasting time. And he also doesn’t like being talked down to. So, instead of thinking up some witty reply, he steps forward, takes a deep breath, and kicks the man in the balls. 

A fight erupts. Clay finds that it’s surprisingly easy to win when he’s not against magic. After taking the sword from the first man he kicked, he’s able to match the strength of his enemies, his training coming back to him naturally. It’s different than fighting with Wilbur- these men are unpredictable, and they’re actually trying to hurt him. Still, they’re weaker than his brother, and also exceptionally shorter. Clay beats them with ease. 

He uses his sword to slice the arm of an oncoming man, who drops his own weapon with a shout and stumbles away. Clay’s making sure to leave them bleeding, but not dangerously. He only plans on taking one life, and that’s years away. In the meantime, he’d like to keep his hands clean. 

He’s enjoying the adrenaline rush. His heart is now beating rhythmically, his breathing comfortable and even. Even as he’s hit, or comes dangerously close to a sharp blade, he’s having fun. He doesn’t think he can say the same for the men he’s fighting. 

The man Clay thinks is their leader is now on the ground, a sword to his throat. “Kidnap him some other time. And don’t do it so publicly. This is a busy place.”

“I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you,” the man seethes, blood on his teeth. “I’m gonna remember you, and I’m gonna fuckin’ kill you. I don’t care if you’re a kid.”

Clay shrugs and steps away, letting him and his men mount their horses and ride away. He watches them go, a satisfied smile gracing his face. His blood buzzes nicely. 

He turns to the rich kid on the ground, who hasn’t moved in a while, and nudges him with his foot. “Yo.”

The kid doesn’t move. Clay nudges him again. “Dude, get up. They’re gone.” 

Sighing when there’s no reply, Clay bends down. He unties the boy’s ankles first, mumbling about inconveniences as he works. As he’s about to move onto the ropes bounding his wrists, the boy jolts, immediately panicking.

“For fuck’s sake,” Clay sighs. “This is more effort than I’d like. Dude, stop. I’m not attacking you. I just saved you. Calm the fuck down.” He pulls the hood from the boy’s head, holding his hands up and taking a step back to show that he’s innocent. 

The boy sits up with some difficulty, his hands still bound. He tentatively touches his hairline, his fingers coming back red. The blood is barely visible, hardly tinting his dark hair, but Clay can see it beginning to drip down his face. The idiot’s probably concussed. 

Clay kneels back down on the ground. “You have a concussion. You have to let me untie your hands.”

Without speaking, the boy offers his wrists, which Clay can see are bruising. As much as he wouldn’t like to, he has to give the kid props- he seems like he put up a good fight. 

He unties the rope, not entirely unkindly, and feels a little guilty when the boy keeps wincing. “Sorry. Just try and keep still and you’ll be fine.”

When his hands are finally free, the boy uses them to steady himself, still faintly swaying. “Why’re you here?” he slurs, his eyelids hooded. 

“Fucked if I know,” Clay snorts. “I was gonna leave you be, but those guys were annoying. Now sober up, I’d feel bad if I left you in this state.” 

The boy hardly seems to hear him. “Who are you?” 

Clay exhales sharply, growing annoyed. He feels naked without his mask. “I’m Dream. Can you get up now, please?”

“Wait, am I- am I dreaming?” 

Clay tries to push aside his annoyance. “No. My name is Dream. And you’re annoying.”

“I’m not annoying, I’m George,” the boy replies, giggling softly. 

“What, did your parents name you after the prince?” Clay scoffs. 

George looks at him weirdly. “You’re stupid.”

“I’m not stupid,” Clay bites back, his voice sharp. “I just saved your life.”

“I’m the prince,” George states, as if it’s obvious. “And I was handling myself fine.”

Clay groans and stands up, dusting himself off. “Of course you’re the fucking prince. Did you take a break from your scheduled executions to get kidnapped, your highness?” 

“Do you really think that insulting your prince is going to do you good?” George sneers. “And I’m not like my father. I’m different.”

“There is no difference in the royal family,” Clay replies coldly. “You’re all the same. Rich, uptight, and mad. Your father has executed hundreds of his people. Of your people. He belongs in a cell, not in charge of a kingdom.” 

George forces himself up, swaying on his feet. “Don’t speak of him like that. Being a king isn’t simple, you wouldn’t understand what he’s had to sacrifice.” 

“Sacrifice?” Clay repeats, incredulous. “He hasn’t sacrificed a thing! His people are the ones losing their parents, not him. Your father is insane. Your idolisation of him just proves that you are too.” 

George’s anger dissipates, replaced with shame. “He killed your parents, didn’t he?”

Clay’s anger doesn’t budge. “My mother, yeah. After my father passed away. Do you know what she did?”

George shakes his head. A drop of blood drips from his jaw and onto his collar. 

“Nothing,” Clay says, voice even. “She was accused of theft. She didn’t do a thing.” 

“I’m sorry,” George whispers. He wipes the red from his face. “Thank you for saving me.”

Clay pushes his emotions down, choosing to think strategically. He’s got the prince in front of him; this could speed up his plan by years. Wilbur is trying to infiltrate the castle by finding work as a servant, but it’s a difficult process. Clay has already fucked this up by yelling. If he plays his cards right, he could find a direct pathway to the king. 

Clay swallows his pride and speaks. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I shouldn’t have assumed you were like your father. I just-” he struggles to sound sincere. “He’s not a good king. Maybe he’s a good man.”

George shakes his head. “No, you’re right. He hasn’t protected people like he should. But he- he’s getting better. I swear. Navis will be peaceful again.” 

Clay nods. His hands are balled into fists. “Let me- let me help you out. I can take care of your head, if you’d like?” 

George seems to consider. “The kingdom will be looking for me. I’m not allowed out, and they’re going to realise I was taken again any minute. The guards will be on the lookout.” He pauses, inhaling deeply, before meeting Clay’s eyes. “I don’t really want to go back, though.”

“Cool,” Clay says. He quickly runs to fetch his bag, which he dropped before the fight, and pulls out his old hoodie. “Wear this.”

George wrinkles his nose at the sight of it. “Seriously?” 

Clay raises an eyebrow. “Seriously. It’ll make you harder to recognise. I don’t want to get arrested for being seen with you.”

George shrugs and takes it, mumbling something under his breath. He has a white silk shirt on, but it’s a rumpled mix of blood and dirt. He’ll look a lot less suspicious with a hoodie that looks like it’s been run through the mud. 

He pulls it straight over his clothes, grimacing with the effort. With the hoodie, he looks a lot more like a citizen that got mugged than a prince that got kidnapped. Clay nearly laughs when he thinks about the prince getting kidnapped. He smiles, forgetting he hasn’t got his mask for a moment. 

“What’s so funny?” George frowns. 

Clay shrugs. “Aren’t you supposed to be, like, tough? But you’re just, like… short and skinny. And concussed.”

“I am tough,” George huffs. “I’ve been trained to fight with a sword. I’m better than the royal guards. That doesn’t mean that I can’t be caught off guard by a rock to the head.”

“How’d you even get caught?” Clay asks. “Aren’t there always people with you? I thought people like you weren’t supposed to be left alone.” 

“I’m not,” George replies. His words are still slightly slurred. “But I like to be. I like sneaking out at night, which is how they found me. They probably scoped me out.” He frowns. “I’ll have to find a new place.” 

Clay doesn’t like how humane the prince seems. “Alright. Well, we should probably get to my house. You seem to be holding up pretty well, but it’s best to stop the bleeding.”

George nods and begins to walk, stumbling every few steps. Clay walks a few paces behind, watching him. He feels like he should be helping him, like he has some obligation to be this guy’s saviour. He hates it. 

***

George feels like shit. 

He’s been hurt before. People are constantly trying to assassinate or kidnap him; most of the time, he fights his attackers off. Other times, he has to be holed up in their evil lair for a week until his father notices he’s gone. 

George knows he isn’t the son his father wanted. The king wanted someone tall and ruthless; someone like Dream, probably. George is strong, and he knows better than anyone how to fight, but he’s soft. He spends too much time finding blue flowers and not enough time sparring with guards. He’s afraid to kill, or to even draw blood. His father never fails to remind George of how he’s disappointed him.

Dream’s house is nice. It’s smaller than George’s bathroom, but it feels homely. It’s dirty, and the window is broken, and there’s a broken chair around the corner, but George loves it. He’s staring, almost in awe, when Dream explains that he has to talk to his brother, and leaves George sitting at the dining room table. 

George begins studying everything around him; smiling at the childish paintings and dying flowers sprung around. The house is unkept, but George assumes that that’s what’s expected of two brothers living alone. He wonders what it would be like to live like them. 

Dream returns with a box and a tall man. He sits down across from George and exchanges a look with the man, the pair silently communicating. George watches in stilled admiration. 

“This is Wilbur, my brother,” says Dream, vaguely waving in the man’s direction. “And this is gonna sting.” 

He applies something damp to George’s forehead, which makes him wince and pull back. He’s used to healing potions, which offer immediate relief and minimal pain. George finds the harshness of alcohol a little refreshing, albeit painful. His eyelids are getting heavier. 

Dream sticks a bandage to the wound and sits back. “You’re not allowed to go to sleep. If anyone finds the prince dead in my kitchen, I’m getting executed. Seriously.” 

George nodd and blinks himself awake. He’s been concussed a number of times -captors love hitting him over the head- and knows how to stay wary of his surroundings. People aren’t usually as worried about him dying in their hospitality. Or they’re just not smart enough to know he’s concussed. 

Wilbur leads Dream away from the table, and the two begin speaking in hushed tones. Unfortunately for them, George’s hearing is incredible, and he soon finds himself eavesdropping on their conversation.

“I’m supposed to be the one to do it. I’m not going to risk your life-”

“This could speed up the plan by years, Wilbur! Think about how much easier it would make things!”

“We need those years! Even I’m not ready for this, and that means you definitely aren’t.” 

“Don’t talk down at me. I’ll work harder, and I’ll be careful, I promise. He’s already here, it won’t be hard at all to convince him of my friendship! I can get close! Wilbur, a friend to the prince is closer to the king than a servant will ever be. Think about this.”

Wilbur sighs, and George zones out. He runs the conversation over in his head, milling over the brothers’ words. Something in his chest twists uncomfortably. 

A little while later, Dream returns him to the castle, and George is immediately escorted away by a huddle of nurses. When he recovers, the day has become a blur, it’s contents forgotten. All he remembers is an ugly yellow colour and a feeling of longing.


End file.
